Waltz of the Heart
by Just Inevitable
Summary: Where Mr and Mrs Carson are just wed.
1. Waltz of my heart haunting and gay

It's mellow, warm and they're both awkward, clumsy, knocking into one another with little laughs, quiet sounds of apology as they navigate their way through the cottage, as they polish off a bottle of wine together and trail upstairs for the evening. Although the house is not quite ready, the master bedroom has been made comfortable, cosy with soft netted curtains, clean fitted sheets, the fire is already going in the hearth and Elsie thinks how nice it all is, how right. Tomorrow, they will take their leave for Scarborough, take a generous long weekend away for a proper honeymoon but she is glad they are to spend their first night here as man and wife, to mark the occasion in the home which brought them together.

Outside, it's drizzling lightly, she can hear the gentle drumming of raindrops against the windowpanes, the sky gone dark by now but it's not yet late enough to change, to take up their bedclothes into the bath and so they occupy themselves with trivial little tasks, her husband and she, with their burning faces and shy, averted glances. Smilingly, sheepishly, Elsie finds herself caught up in the narrow passage with him, in the doorway and his knuckles graze her hip although he doesn't mean to, her elbow pushes into his stomach before they make the necessary adjustments, before he raises his hand and signals courteously, shuts the door behind them.

And it's amidst her gentle bustling then, as she takes to unpacking their things, emptying their cases at the foot of the bed that he speaks to her from behind, from where he has lowered himself onto the armchair. She can see his smile, his beaming face from the corner of her eye, that steady, loving gaze which kindles something deep inside her and it's between the folding of gloves and putting away his jacket, their shoes in the cupboard and all her busy housekeeping, that she hears the gravelling sincerity of his voice, that her eyes then, begin to well with tears.

"You do look wonderful," he says.

His praise, that rich velvet of his timbre wraps around her heart, clenches and her breath catches on an unexpected sob, a deep inhalation of laughter, of tears and suddenly, suddenly she is shaking. Shaking with it, and gasping for air because she's been deep under, in the loch and holding her breath since the ceremony, since he'd asked her to join in on his business venture and hadn't known it, has only just now come to shore. Because he is here, his step is loud now, crisp against the floorboards and he's in front of her in a moment, placing his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs running along the lines of her neck.

He is here as she had scarcely allowed herself to hope; a farmer's daughter after all, she has seen the changeable thing called life and perhaps that ever pragmatic part of her hadn't truly believed it until this moment. She hadn't wept when he'd proposed after all, had not let the tears fall when he'd kissed her in the pantry, so sweetly there, or through the echo of his vows resounding in the church, but now. Now, the seeds have taken root and flowered and he is here, her husband; a whisper of worry, of anxiety streaming through his voice, in his face so close to hers and the reality of it is crashing down on her in waves upon waves of emotion, bringing salt water to her eyes.

"What is it, what's the matter? Mrs Hugh— Mrs Carson, have I done something?" He is still brushing her jawline, her chin with the pads of his thumbs and Elsie shakes her head, wipes at her face, under her lashes.

"No, no. Just, when you talk like that…"

She trails off, responds instead by way of a watery smile, the inward tuck of her chin. And she feels more than hears that low rumble in his chest now, his quiet laughter as strong arms wind around her shoulders, fold her in his embrace and thinks of how she'd like to stand this way for a good, long while. How she wants to soak in the heat of him until she can feel it right in the marrow of her bones, in the very fibre of her being. To think that for years, she has lived and breathed this man, has drawn in the scent of his pomade, of his aftershave, for decades the silver polish that clings to his skin. That together they have walked tens of thousands of acres in the form of corridors and passageways, his cuff brushed against her sleeve, that she has sat and eaten and prayed with him and yet to stand with him like this, to feel his hard body pressed against hers is endlessly thrilling, brings a delight to her like she's never known.

And it takes her another long minute, two to realise that he is waiting, that his hands on her shoulders kneading lightly, running down the length of her arms are asking for permission, that his lips pressed to the crown of her head are waiting patiently now for her invitation. Silently of course, not demanding anything, not him, not ever, only with the quietest implore but Elsie understands it all the same. In equal parts it excites her, unnerves her and there is a high thrumming in her head, through her body as she reaches for him. Strokes gently there against the tweed of his waistcoat, at his chest with quivering fingers, moves with small increments up toward his neck and she relishes that harsh intake of breath, the encouraging clamp of his nails into her shoulder. Tilts her head quickly then, and presses her mouth to his throat, bravely to that tender nook, where his collar carves into his skin and whispers.

"Won't you kiss me?"

It's all the encouragement he needs, she discovers, Elsie sees only a flash of his reddened cheeks, of the hard line of his mouth before her eyes flutter to a close and he is kissing her, really kissing her there with warm palms cupping her face, the sweet slide of his tongue along her lips. Lavishing her there with his gentle affections until she is melded into him, until her knees are leaning on his shins and oh, how fulfilling it is. How gratifying it has been to learn at last that he is a man of raw romantic sentiment, a man so full of passion, that beneath the rigid angles and rotations of their lives had been hiding a lover's heart and she has been framed there, enclosed inside as the object of its affection.


	2. Calling enthrallingly, waltzing away

_Author's Notes:_ Hello everyone! I posted and removed this chapter earlier on because I thought nobody was around anymore to read it, but due to the overwhelming response I got afterwards, I decided I might as well repost. This chapter isn't anything special maybe, but it's a nice way to complete the set, and I like where I'm leaving these two. Happy, and in love. I hope you enjoy.

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Their kiss is long and leisured honey; he is all softness with those tender touches to her face, her neck, all sweetness with that beautiful mouth pressed against hers. And Elsie is smiling between breaths, in those small sacred spaces where their lips pull apart, only to join again. Her laughter chimes softly as the kiss goes on and on in their little bedroom, for a long and decadent age, for those precious scant minutes. They pull away only when they can bear it no longer, only when her lips have turned pink and swollen and when his lungs have been robbed of their breath, only when she brings his shaking hands to the satin of her dress and his face is bright and her ears are burning.

"You're certain?" he asks then, quietly. "Because I hope you know, I'd never press you."

And his voice is reassuring, tender, even as large fingers begin to circle those little fastenings along the back of her gown, trifling with the tiny eyelets and studs, even as his lips land warmly against her neck, delicately there below her ear. Oh and Elsie is certain of many things, sure of how he takes his tea and counts those things which soften his heart; she is definitive in his habits and humour, has committed every line, every crease of his brow to memory. And although her heart is hammering in its cage now, her skin sensitive and searing under his touch and despite that she knows nothing of intimacy, not in the slightest, she is certain of one thing. Sure as the sun of this man, of this love that is good and right between them, providence in the very stars that they have been given this now, this blessed requite that he has felt for her as she has for him.

And so Elsie responds with her voice rough around the edges, running over with affection. "You're an old numpty, Mr Carson," she is saying now, with a smile, a splutter. "If you think I've ever been more sure of anything."

At once, his hands halt those languid caresses to her sides, to her back and he pulls away immediately only to look down at her, to gaze softly at her face with shining eyes. Elsie strokes at the soft skin there, to smooth away those little wrinkles of worry, to wipe aside those tears now, spilling onto his cheeks. And the light, delighted notes of earlier have suddenly deepened, grown heavier and heated between them as his head bows down toward her now, as the twinkle in his eye darkens nearly to black. Their lips meet again. Urgently this time, Elsie hooks her fingers under his braces and pulls him close, pushes onto her toes to kiss him, to be kissed by him fully, forcefully. Desperately now, with trembling hands, does he extricate the last of the clasps about her, peel the dress from her body and let it fall to the floor.

For this is the delicate dance they have danced all these years after all, rehearsals for this perfect promenade. This wandering waltz of sideways glances and her tempered words and his covert smiles which reaches a crescendo at last, at length. And the urgent pressing of lips, of caresses and careful nips for all the secrets she never let spill and every declaration he never made, lest they were too much for him, lest it wasn't enough for her. Every ball gone by with palms that did not meet, and the persistent moving of fingers as they lay in their separate beds, in their own rooms, and now this. Now, Elsie is coming undone by the insistent tugging at the ties of her corset, the pulling of pins from her hair; she is coming apart at his ragged breaths, warm against her skin and it is everything.

It is everything; every worshipful prayer, every sinuous thought, every way not ventured and the lives they have and have not lived. Their steps in synchronised motion as he follows her lead dutifully, eagerly toward the bed; to the solid dark wood frame and those fresh linen sheets, a blanket large enough to share. She is turning in the circle of his arms and with every revolution, he unravels her further, with every turn, she divests him of his dressings. Gone are the costumes now, those blacks and whites of the roles they have played, gone are the grey fineries of her gown and his garments as he lays her bear, lays her on the bed with his weight deliciously heavy against her.

"Oh Mrs Hughes," he whispers, pressing her against the mattress. His lips are everywhere, tasting and teasing her in this tantalising tango, as Elsie tangles him in her embrace, in her arms and legs around him, and their tethered heartstrings as she sighs. "Whatever have you done to me?"

"My darling man," she says then, adoringly, amusedly. And there is a pause between them, the skipping of beats and the briefest respites as he pulls back from her embrace and she smiles, touches his face sweetly. "I will do something to you if you don't start calling me Elsie."

And she is laughing then, reeling with happiness when he presses warm digits against her bare skin, and he is laughing now, weeping when he pushes into her in euphony, in euphoric rejoice. It is the cacophony of life which fades to concord, to moans of a pleasure long-awaited and cries of a love not anticipated and it is enough, it is more than she could ever have asked for. It is everything, Elsie thinks again, his body joint with hers in this devoted dance, every up and down they have faced, every celebration and catastrophe in the rhythmic rise and fall of their coupling. And he does say her name now, croons it in her ear again and again, as he fills the hole in her heart and oh, how she loves him, loves him and loves him in that endless refrain.


End file.
